


Not My Underwear

by CooperCooperGo



Series: Imagine ClintCoulson Prompt Fills [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bed-Stuy flat, Boxer-Briefs, Clint's a bad landlord, M/M, SHIELD boxer-briefs, laundromat mixup, not just any boxer-briefs, pre-phlint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 07:53:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14280405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CooperCooperGo/pseuds/CooperCooperGo
Summary: Clint's not good at laundromats.





	Not My Underwear

**Author's Note:**

> For the Imagine Clint/Coulson prompt: If possible, a get together fic where previously they both don’t know each other too well, but they took each other’s underwear from the laundromat by mistake.

The thing about the underwear…the thing is…it’s not just fancy, it’s _engineered_.

It reminds Clint of the super-suits SHIELD used to make for him back when he was still on their full-time payroll. All space-age fiber and nano- micro- carbon-mesh something, something.

Clint rolls over, holds the boxer-briefs up at arms-length. The thin, morning light from the grubby skylight of the loft bedroom shines right through them. They’re almost transparent. And soft, like silk, and strong. And kinda sexy, if he’s honest, in a sleek, utilitarian sort of way. Like the quinjet. Or like…a sexy astronaut ninja. Or something.

Who the hell wears underwear like this??

Downstairs Lucky is barking hopefully for morning walkies. Clint tosses the briefs back into the Definitely Clean laundry pile. Later he’ll take all 3 pairs he found in his laundry duffle back down to the laundromat’s lost-and-found. Maybe his missing boxers will be there.

He rolls over and fishes around in the Probably Mostly Clean laundry pile beside the bed for some underwear he can actually wear. He comes up with a pair of tidy whiteys with the elastic all blown out and some lavender boy-shorts that are probably Natasha’s.

Downstairs Lucky’s barking has taken on the slightly hysterical edge of a dog who is not gonna be able to hold it much longer.

“Okay, okay I’m coming!”

 

\- -

 

He can’t see the man’s face. Just his stride toward him, confident and deliberate, purposeful; like Clint was prey being stalked. He’s frozen in place—can’t do anything but stand there waiting. The man takes his time, knowing that Clint is helpless. Each step is unhurried, heavy with intent.

The man emerges from the shadows. He’s wearing the sexy astronaut ninja underwear. The outline of his full cock under the shear fabric is mouth-watering. Clint licks his lips and sinks slowly to his knees…

Clint snorts up out of the dream in a flail of sheets, thrashes off the bed and hits the floor with a heavy thud, his dick throbbing.

_Woah, woah, woah, what the hell._

 

\- -

 

“Your obsession with the underwear has gotten weird,” Natasha says. She is sitting on Clint’s couch, honing one of the slender throwing knives she keeps in her shoes. Turns out she has a knife kit under his couch. And a bag of money. And six guns.

The measured scrape of the blade against the whetstone would be comforting except after that dream he really doesn’t want to talk about The Underwear.

Clint hunches back into the couch cushions and keeps his eyes on his feet, propped up on the battered coffee table alongside Nat’s knife kit. He wiggles his toes. There’s a hole in one of his socks.

“It’s not an obsession,” he says, trying not to sound defensive, “it’s just a…”

“A what?”

“A…hobby?”

She levels a look at him. It’s something like pity.

She shoves aside an end pillow and spears something underneath with the knife. The Underwear dangles from her blade. She raises an eyebrow.

Clint snatches the briefs and clutches them to his chest. Then realizes what he’s doing isn’t exactly helping his case and throws them on the coffee table. Where they seem to stare at him accusingly. He snatches them up and shoves them back under a couch cushion.

“It’s not weird,” he says, his ears hot.

Nat holds the blade up to the light, frowning at some imperfection only she can see. “Alright,” she says, unconvincingly.

 

\- -

 

There’s a man…a man in a suit…standing at the front door. He’s holding out a bag.

Clint takes the bag. Inside are a stack of purple boxers in various stages of decomposition that have nonetheless been neatly folded and…pressed? His underwear has never looked so good.

He doesn’t actually remember opening the door. He vaguely remembers a polite knock, which is almost always a tenant wanting something fixed. He barely remembers collapsing on the couch last night—it had been a sixteen hour flight from Turkey after a four day op where it was 37C in the shade and three hours of sleep a night and there is still sand in places he didn’t want to think about.

Right. Digression. Back to this guy. Time for a social…thing. Clint mumbles ‘thanks,” and is about to shut the door when he notices the man is looking him over, his expression deeply contemplative.

Oh shit, is he wearing clothes…?? It wouldn’t be the first time he answered the door without…Clint wakes up a little and looks down.

He’d taken a shower when he got in last night, probably, and put on the only clean pair of underwear he could fi—yep, he’s wearing The Underwear. Of course he is. And nothing else, if you don’t count the blanket clutched in one hand. So this guy with _his_ underwear is…

“I actually think they look better on you than on me,” the guy says thoughtfully.

Mystery Sexy Astronaut Ninja Man— _holy shit_ —plucks a business card from an interior pocket and holds it out to Clint. There’s a name on it, ‘Philip J Coulson,’ and a phone number. Nothing else printed on the heavy paper.

“You know Bernie’s on the corner of Halsey? Good coffee. Maybe you’d like to meet me there when you’re ready to return those.” The man doesn’t exactly smile—it’s more of a smirk, really. And a challenge.

Clint watches him walk away down the hall, his heavy, deliberate stride releasing a sense memory. He shivers.

‘Phil,’ huh? Clint smiles and shuts the door.


End file.
